O, Best Beloved, I have not forgotten you.I am losing track of time in this in-between, this almost-over. It is mondaytuesdaywednesday never now tomorrow and yesterday, all confused together. One day is much like the last is exactly the next; the only difference whether my Angel is there to keep it moving or not.I must find and learn my PALS book and pretest. I must go to the residency and sign a paper. I must find an extra thousand dollars for the bamboo, which was quoted to us as $2700 and now is going to cost just over $4000, and I must not forget to be productive. It is hard. I think I have forgotten all of my medical training in two months. I wish I knew the rotation I would be on, so I could feel like I needed to study for it. I am terrified of clinic.

But, O Best Beloved, there has been a boy lounging around our house who is familiar to me and it was somewhat comforting to have him here. I had almost forgotten the sweetness of his scent, boy-flavoured, the subtle heat of his nearness. He is a boy I adore, and he knows that, I have told him and it has once upon a time been trouble and trauma.He is one of the people whose fibers run through me, make me who and what I am. And I love him because he will always be part of me, in that fundamental steel that twines my mind. And it was hard to see him go, knowing that there has never been much to say.

We have decided to wait on the bamboo. Right now, when I am not being paid, it is too much money and we have too much debt. It will wait. I think that means the piano should come into the house before the humidity ruins it. Opinions?Consolidated my loans - or at least submitted the application for consolidation. That means I have only two sources for loan money and one has an in-residency deferment. That is one weight off my mind.

Signed my paper and had my employee physical and random drug test. I am not afraid of random drug tests. I was a little afraid of employee physicals, but it was painless, and I don't have to have my TB test redone. I also got to see the new laptops and Dell Axims we will be getting on the 22nd, and I can't wait to play with new toys.

Have played World of Warcraft a reasonable amount; the paladin-warlock combo with a fully-fleshed backstory is nice. It means I can work with the regions of the world and feel like more than an automaton. Have not been soloing as much. Am working with another mod author to try and debug his emote menu. It's going well thus far, and it feels good to be a consultant - even if my consulting consists of talking at Angel until I have a flash of inspiration or he points out a minor flaw. Am also working hard on Recipe Book in order to get book sharing into place. Have had some lovely people at WoWInterface note funny little bugs, also Curse Gaming. I may have to stop work on my alpha release and fidge with the current version some, redirect my efforts. This programming is lovely business, we likes it, but it will eat my brain.

I have the urge to write; it was probably brought on by the whispers of memory. I cleaned out boxes today that my mother packed from my bedroom when she moved out of her house in 1999 or so. I have, I am sad to mention, now recycled the printouts I kept of every AOL Mail conversation I had with D, the boy in Kansas about whom I will always be a little bit crazy. One can only keep paper printouts so long - and I am the sort of girl who runs roughshod over his sort of boy, leaving nothing but bitterness where there was once the sweetness of an unopened book. The unfinished story we wrote, however, is in my filing bin as I type, waiting for me to hook up the scanner and OCR it so I can send it to him; it is something that might one day be a piece to write about again.

My mind is filled with a hundred things, a thousand questions, and why, O Best Beloved, does Xev eat the bamboo plant? I am industrious enough today - Angel remembered to pull me out of bed before he left this morning, and I am determined to stop sleeping ten hours a day. I have paid bills and consolidated loans and repaired the sink faucet so that it does not spray a tiny jet of water in a random direction when turned on. I have thrown away countless memories and letters from Internet people I no longer remember; I cannot keep them forever - I am twenty-six years old and it takes two trucks to move my stuff. I will have time to collect paper memories when I am older. For now, I will keep them in my heart and my mind.

There is a meme: Eleven years ago, I was fifteen and beginning to spiral down an empty oasis of my own mind. I wonder, indeed, whatthisgirlwouldhavethought of me now. I think she would not believe me. I think she would listen to the things I have been and done and seen and I think she would look at me through too-long bangs and tip-tilted eyes (I found pictures, O Best Beloved; I was beautiful then and I never never knew it) and she would shake her head. And she would whisper "Cat of all places?" And I would whisper "Nenni." And she would nod, that child who knew what I have forgotten. And she would swallow, hard, and hold out an unlined notebook half-full of half-formed thoughts. "Sign here. Write anything you want."And I would sign it, my name. And I would write: You are more than you know. You will break free. You will become a doctor. You will be loved. And she would look at it, after I had gone, and shake her head and chew on the end of her pen, and wonder how it would all change next.

I mean, the piano is not unbearably much labor to move. I'll even help you with that if you want. Even if you want to assign a generous sum of money to "effort involved in moving the piano," it's certainly insignificant compared to $4000.

My parents bought their baby grand new in 1978 for $1500. The store was going out business, so they got a pretty good deal on it.

It isn't the same, but in some ways it is. It's one of the lines that connects us, my vita-marie. It hurts a little to watch and go; it hurts a little to lose what's near, what's warm and seemingly right-- but for both of us, it is right that the we watch and go.

I'm almost two years out from medical school, here in Indiana where I was born and grew up. I used to write poetry - still do, sometimes - but now I've taken to spilling my heart out in prose. I'm balancing family, expecting a new baby, and working as a second-year family medicine resident. I'd like to take you along for the ride.

My updates are erratic, dependent on my mood, my current work schedule, and my ability to motivate myself. You are warned.

Expect a narrative of my days on shift. Anticipate good experiences and bad. Almost everything I write, personal or not, is a public entry, so be prepared for things that you don't quite understand.

There is a list of those who really do want to know more about me than the general public desires to see. Flip down to "spin a web" and click the link there to get in on that list.